25. Truce #2
Because the universe was trying to finish off my floundering resolve by showing me the man could cook.
He was still wearing only those goddamn sweatpants, moving around the kitchen with easy confidence and plating our meal himself.
When he saw me standing there, one side of his lips tugged up into that sexy, lopsided smile that was utterly devastating to the female population, and then he walked forward, carrying a spoon with sauce.
“Tell me if you want more salt,” he said, hovering the spoon in front of my lips.
I was too dazed to come up with a witty response or even think about how to act like a brat.
Instead, my lips parted around the spoon, and the most delicious, aromatic sauce hit my tongue.
He stared at me, bending his knees slightly and holding his arms wide to show he was waiting for my answer.
I shook my head. “It’s… perfect. No salt,” I muttered, and felt my cheeks flame as he gave me that triumphant smile again. This man was lethal. To prove that point, he stepped closer, tilted my chin up, and bent down, licking a drop of sauce I hadn’t realised had fallen onto my chin.
“Mm,” he moaned. “It is perfect.”
He moved back to the kitchen as my hand shot out and gripped the island to keep me upright.
“Sit,” he ordered, pointing toward the table. “It’s ready.”
He placed the bowls down and topped up his… oh God. My cocktail, the sickliest, sweetest blend of alcohol I could invent, shimmered in his glass. He poured me one and sat down opposite me.
“What’s this called?” he asked, lifting the glass to his lips and suppressing a smirk.
“Glitter bomb.” A name I made up on the spot as I watched him shudder slightly after his sip. “You don’t have to drink it. It's probably not your thing, right?”
“I’m on my third glass. It gets better.”
I tried to fight back my smile. I really did. But it was impossible. I took a bite of the homemade pasta with red sauce and succulent meat to hide it. The shredded, tender meat melted on my tongue, and the explosion of deep, rich flavours was like an orgasm in my mouth.
“Is that ox cheek? Did you seriously make this from scratch?” I asked, glancing over my shoulder to check for any evidence in the kitchen that he’d bought a microwavable meal or that someone had delivered this from a five-star restaurant.
“Don’t sound so surprised that your husband can cook. It’s one of my many talents. Don't worry, there's still more for you to discover,” he said, shooting me? a suggestive smile.
Vagina, stop getting excited. Not happening.
“I am surprised,” I said, thinking of how Callum always had an in-house chef at home to prepare all his meals. “Most wealthy men like you have chefs, don’t they?”
“Do they?” he teased, taking a mouthful. “I’m 100% Italian. It would be an insult if I didn’t know how to cook. But yes, I have a chef who can cook for me when I can’t be bothered, or I’m too busy. But I wanted to cook my wife her first meal myself.”
I dropped my cutlery in surrender and glared at him. “Stop. Seriously, just stop. This is getting ridiculous.”
He frowned. “What?”
“This. You. It's like you're reading from a playbook about how to say the most perfect, sexy things that women would die to hear. I know it’s all an act to distract me from whatever you’re planning against my father. Just… be yourself. Please. It will make hating you easier.”
He put down his fork and leaned back in his chair. His dark gaze bore into my soul, and I felt myself squirm under its intensity. Damn this man and his need for eye contact.
“I’m being myself. This is who I am. So the fact that you're finding it so hard to hate me should tell you something. I’m not hiding any part of myself from you. I’m an open book, Aria.” He waved his hand towards me. “Unlike you.”
“Unlike me?”
“You’ve been… pretty insane today. I had no idea I’d married so many personalities.
It's been entertaining, but I know it's not the real you. Did you know, until I was six years old, I had eight different nannies before Olivia came along and figured me out? I was a master at refusing to let people get close. I knew all the tricks.”
I scoffed. I should have used this as a chance to get defensive and act a little more insane, but honestly, I felt strangely relieved that he’d noticed. That he knew I wasn’t really this crazy person.
“I get it,” he said, picking up his fork again and carrying on with his food. “You don’t trust me or my intentions. You’re keeping your walls up to protect yourself and doing things that you think will push me away, but it’s pointless, Bella Ribelle.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because you’re already falling for me. Sooner or later, those walls will come crashing down, and you’ll realise you wasted all this time and effort fighting against us when you could have been enjoying how inevitable it is.”
Why was I smiling?
“You are so arrogant.”
“No.” He pointed his fork at me. “Confident. So what do you say? Want to put away the crazy and enjoy our first meal together?”
"I suppose this meal does deserve to be enjoyed and not thrown at the wall like I was planning to do."
He smiled, and I tried to ignore the little jump my heart did at the sight of it.
We spent the meal in a comfortable, domestic ease.
He asked me about my upbringing in the UK and told me how he’d visited a few times with Olivia and Giovanni when he was growing up.
He spoke about her with just as much affection as she had about him, and it was clear he adored her.
Another surprising quality I hadn’t expected a man like him to possess.
He was a family man. He loved, adored, and worshipped his family, even those who weren't his blood.
It was hard to remember he was a killer when I was so swept up by the way he spoke with such emotion about the people in his life, the sparkle in his eyes, and the sexy way he moved his hands in animated gestures.
“Do you have any siblings?” he asked when we’d finished our food and moved to the large L-shaped sofa in the living room.
He’d even turned the fairy lights on and switched off the main lights, so they cast a sensual, romantic glow.
What a stupid idea, Aria. I’d unknowingly set the scene for a romantic night in with my new husband that I was supposed to be repelling.
“No. My parents separated when I was young, and neither of them remarried. I wish I had a big family. Brothers and sisters. Are you close with your siblings?”
What are you doing? Why are you asking him sincere questions like you actually care? Stop it.
“I am,” he answered, manspreading his thighs, which shouldn't have been as sexy as it was. He stretched his arm over the back of the sofa. We weren’t close enough to touch, but if I reached up, I could caress his tattooed hand with mine. Not that I wanted to.
For the second time today, I noticed the antique Rolex with a cracked screen on his wrist and wondered again why he was wearing a broken watch when he clearly had enough money to buy a new one.
“I’m closest to Raya. She’s two years younger than me, and we’ve been through a lot together.
She’s an amazing musician, and she started composing her own music.
She’s also learning to be a nurse. Elle’s an incredible artist. Most of the paintings in this place are hers.
You’ll love her. Everyone loves Elle. She’s bubbly, feisty, and vibrant.
Gio is harder to impress, but he’ll love you, too, once he gets to know you better.
Gio and Elle are a lot older, so my relationship with them has always been a bit of an adult/child dynamic.
Gio was twenty-three when I was born, so he’s always felt more like a father figure than a brother. But ?I needed that.”
I realised then that his father had been absent from the wedding. “Is your papi—”
“Dead,” he said sharply, taking another sip of the cocktail and still hissing. “He died when I was four.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said softly, and instinctively lifted my hand to rest it over his on the back of the sofa. My eyes widened when I realised what I’d done, but when I tried to move it away, he entwined our fingers, drawing circles with his thumb over my skin.
“It was a long time ago.”
I knew what it felt like to lose a parent too soon, and I knew that time taught you how to breathe around it, but it never numbed the grief.
“How did he die?”
“He was murdered. Enemies ran him and my mamma off the road in a car chase, then opened fire on them. He was shot multiple times trying to protect my mamma from being taken by them. She blamed herself for a long time.”
My mouth hung open. It didn’t sound real. But this was his life. The real dangers he faced. I gulped, realising I had just become part of that life too.
“That’s… awful.”
“For the people left behind, si,” he agreed, a sadness washing over his features that tightened my chest. “What about your mamma? How old were you when she passed?”
Shit. I’m surprised he remembered. I’d only mentioned her passing briefly in that massage room weeks ago.
I really didn’t expect to be having these deep, traumatic conversations with this man.
My head was telling me to change the subject; don’t let him in.
But the way he was looking at me… made me want to spill all my secrets.
“Twenty-three. She, um,” I shifted, the weight in my chest deepening as it pressed against my ribs. I barely talked about her death to anyone. It was still too hard. “She died in a house fire, along with her friend.”
“Cazzo,” he groaned, squeezing my hand, which only made tears form behind my eyes. “I’m sorry. That's brutal.”
The horrors of that night flashed through my mind: parking the car and seeing the flames, running around the perimeter looking for a way in, screaming for her, crying on my knees in the garden as the firefighters tried their best, but it was too late.
I wiped my face as tears escaped and exhaled, pushing the trauma back.